


Right Wormhole, Wrong Stop

by Rinkafic



Series: A Little FarGate [1]
Category: Farscape, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinkafic/pseuds/Rinkafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Farscape/Stargate Atlantis crossover, with all the John hotness in one story.  What if Sheppard had not ended up home when he stepped through the Gate in the epsiode "The Last Man" and ended up somewhere else, like on Moya for instance, in the time when Aeryn was off on Talyn?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Wormhole, Wrong Stop

John Sheppard knew that he was taking a huge chance, stepping through the Gate on the word of hologram Rodney and the hope that the Atlantis machinery he had programmed had not gone kaput while he was stuck in stasis. But what other choice did he have? It was either back to stasis or a slow starving death on a dead world.

This wormhole was different, the trip took far too long. He was actually aware of the passage of time between one step and the next through the vortex. There was time enough for him to swear colorfully in his mind before he felt utter coldness envelop him. 

The next thing he was aware of was warmth pressed against his cheek as he sprawled on his belly on a warm floor. 

A foot was pressed into the middle of his back, a very large foot. He twisted around as much as he could to look over his shoulder and groaned as he saw a huge alien with tattoos Ronon would probably admire snarling at him. John was nearly lifted off the floor as the giant tore the Beretta from the holster at his hip and took his knife. The foot pressed closer to the back of John’s neck.

“Uhm, hi?” John ventured as his face was smashed into the floor. He glanced around, but couldn’t see much from his vantage point. Just some crates, curving golden-reddish walls, booted feet and feminine knees. 

“ _Megrat imshi fipres?_ ” A pale face with a mop of white hair appeared upside down in front of him. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.” But why? The Gate had almost always translated for him in the past.

“ _Kazlit fosh mestret ig nala?_ ” A male voice asked from somewhere out side John’s vision.

This was frustrating. The boot pressed into his back a bit harder and Sheppard protested, “Hey, let me up, I’m not dangerous, I’m just a little lost. We’ll sort this all out and I’ll be on my way.” 

“You speak English?” the man asked. John’s arm was lifted from the floor and he felt his wristwatch being twisted and examined. Turning his head, John saw a pair of black leather clad knees as the man crouched beside him. “From Earth?” 

“Yeah.”

“Who are you? How’d you end up on our ship?”

A ship? The floor was warm; he’d never been on a deck this warm before. Odd. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard; I think I came through a busted wormhole.”

“Let him up D’argo. One-eye, shoot him up with the Babel Juice.” 

The pressure of the foot disappeared. A small yellow thing flashed past him, he heard the whir of a tiny servo motor, a robot of some kind. He felt a sharp jab through the seat of his BDUs and then a flush of warmth. “What the?”

“Translator microbes. Give them a few minutes to work through your system, then you’ll be able to understand the rest of the gang.” A strong hand wrapped around Sheppard’s upper arm and dragged him up. 

He was in a cargo bay, apparently. Looking around, he saw the white haired girl, petite and leather clad. The owner of the huge foot was even taller than Ronon and wider too. He had no hair, and John found himself slightly fascinated by the tentacle-like appendages swinging from his head and his beak. The dude had a beak. John’s Beretta looked like a toy in the giant hand that held it.

The man that spoke English was standing with his hands on his hips, giving John the once over. John blinked as he realized the man bore an uncanny resemblance to the leader of SG-1. “Cameron Mitchell?” John blurted.

“Uh, no, but there’s a whole passel of Mitchells on my mom’s side though, back in Kansas, I think one of them is called Cameron. I’m from Florida. John Crichton.” Crichton stuck a hand out and John shook it then pointed out his companions and introduced them, “Chiana, D’Argo.”

“How did the wormhole dump me here?”

“It did not, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard…”

He looked around for the source of the new voice. Apparently the microbes worked fast. “Just Sheppard is fine,” he interrupted.

“Very well, Sheppard. You appeared in space after a short burst of energy outside Moya’s port side. We retrieved you,” a disembodied voice said.

“That’s Pilot,” the gray girl said, pointing to a view screen device mounted near the ceiling in the corner of the hold. 

The head in the shell-thing screen said, “Commander Crichton, there is a ship approaching, unknown registry.”

~*~

The ship rocked as another blast hit them, throwing Moya sideways. Crichton looked up just in time to catch Sheppard as he fell against him. He wrapped his hands around the other man’s waist and braced for impact with the bulkhead.

“Ow, damn!” he exclaimed breathlessly as he hit painfully, whacking his head hard as his back slammed into the wall. 

“Sorry!” Sheppard apologized, as they fell together in a heap on the deck with Moya’s next roll.

“Pilot! Starburst!” D’Argo shouted.

Crichton was trying to catch his breath as he felt the shift that meant Moya had successfully used her best maneuver to get them out of danger. He still had both arms wrapped around the strange officer they seem to have inherited. 

When the ship straightened out, Sheppard wriggled out of Crichton’s grasp and knelt beside him. “Hey, buddy, you hurt?’

“Hit my head, vision’s a little blurred at the moment. Might have cracked a rib, or broke my back, not sure which yet. Gimmee a minute to check.”

Sheppard’s hands skirted over Crichton’s t-shirt, feeling along his ribs, he gasped as the fingers hit the affected ones. “Right there.” The touch grew softer as Sheppard felt along each rib, searching for an obvious break.

“Thanks for catching me. You didn’t have to do that,” Sheppard said quietly, moving his hands up to check the other wound. His sure fingers glided over the rising lump on the back of Crichton’s head, making Crichton wince in pain.

Their eyes met, just for a brief moment, and Crichton couldn’t look away. He saw something flash briefly in the other man’s eyes, and then Sheppard leaned over to check the head wound more closely, breaking the look. 

“You’re gonna have some headache,” Sheppard pronounced, and then once again, their eyes met as Sheppard pulled back slightly. 

Crap. 

Sheppard was trouble with a capital T, Crichton just knew it. Before Aeryn, back in college, before Caroline, Sheppard was exactly the type Crichton had gone for. Damn it, he did not need more complications in his life.

 

Not the End


End file.
